PETER 


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PETER 


PETER 


BY 


ARTHUR    SHERBURNE    HARDY 


BOSTON    AND    NEW   YORK 
HOIJGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

rcstf  Cambri&0e 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1930,  BY  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY  ARTHUR  SHBRBURNE  HARDY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


"And  thou  shalt  live  as  long  as  we, 
And  after  that  —  thou  dost  not  care! 
In  us  was  all  the  world  to  thee" 


568956 


PETER 

WHAT  are  you  thinking  of, 
Peter?" 

At  the  sound  of  the  voice  the 
tip  of  Peter's  tail  moved  slightly. 
Peter's  meditations  were  not  to  be 
disturbed  by  idle  questions;  they 
were  too  profound — far  pro- 
founder  than  the  speaker  imagined. 
They  had  nothing  to  do  with  ma 
terial  things. 

Like  his  Master,  Peter  was  a 
philosopher.  There  the  likeness 
ceased.  The  Master's  philosophy 
ended  in  perplexity,  Peter's  in 
serenity.  For  he  was  the  only  liv- 

c  1 3 


PETER 

ing  creature  who  had  seen  its 
God. 

There  was  not  the  slightest 
doubt  about  it.  Every  earthly 
pleasure,  every  material  satisfac 
tion,  was  traceable  to  that  strange 
being  sitting  hour  after  hour  in 
the  leather  chair  with  the  big  folio 
open  on  its  knees.  Nothing  had 
ever  thrown  the  faintest  shadow  of 
doubt  on  Peter's  conviction.  Noth 
ing  the  Being  in  the  chair  might 
do  in  the  future  could  invalidate 
its  divinity,  and  in  this  knowledge 
was  supreme  content. 

Peter  made  no  pretence  of  un 
derstanding  his  God.  Long  since  he 
had  acknowledged  its  ways  were 

C  2  3 


PETER 

past  finding  out.  He  was  under  no 
obligation  to  explain  the  amazing 
futility  of  its  actions.  It  was  enough 
for  Peter  that  the  Master  was  the 
dispenser  of  good  and  evil,  that  he 
was  asleep  by  his  fire,  would  pres 
ently  walk  with  him  in  the  wood 
and  sup  with  him  on  their  return. 
Nor  did  it  matter  to  Peter  that 
he  was  misunderstood.  He  was 
not  bothered  by  what  he  did  not 
know.  He  took  life  and  God  as 
they  were  given  him.  It  was  well 
that  he  had  not  mastered  all  the 
accents  of  language,  the  pity  and 
the  vanity  of  the  question  addressed 
to  him;  for  Peter,  in  the  belief  of 
the  Master,  was  a  rank  mate- 

C  3  3 


PETER 

rialist,  credited  only  with  sor 
did  thoughts  of  supper,  foolish 
thoughts  of  the  squirrel  that  had 
mocked  him  from  the  oak,  animal 
thoughts  of  the  fire's  warmth  and 
the  rug's  softness.  Whereas  Peter 
was  thinking  of  none  of  these 
things.  They  counted  for  nothing 
in  comparison  with  the  friendship 
and  companionship  of  his  God. 
For  Peter  had  found  what  man  had 
been  seekingever  since  he  emerged 
from  the  slime,  what  he  had  prayed 
for  before  priests  were  born.  How 
many  images  he  had  fashioned  in 
tears  and  broken  in  scorn !  How 
many  puppets  he  had  lifted  to 
thrones  and  dragged  in  dust ! 

:  *  n 


PETER 

Peter  had  had  no  via  dolorosa.  He 
was  born  with  an  organized  judg 
ment,  superciliously  designated  by 
his  Master  as  instinct.  Peter  knew. 
He  would  sleep  a  little  longer,  till 
the  folio  was  closed  and  the  voice 
said,  "  Arise  and  follow  me/' 

Peter  was  not  blind  to  his  privi 
leges.  He  alone  had  free  entrance 
to  the  Holy  of  Holies.  In  this  re 
spect  he  took  precedence  over 
Tom  and  Mary.  He  had  a  toler 
ant  affection  for  Tom  and  Mary, 
though  they  often  offended  his 
dignity.  That  he  was  distinctly 
superior  to  both  was  indisputable. 
There  was  also  a  woman  who  came 
occasionally  into  the  temple,  shar- 
[  5  3 


PETER 

ing  his  rights.  But  Peter  was  dis 
criminating.  She  was  not  a  god 
—  only  a  worshipper,  like  himself. 
Peter  gave  her  his  left-over  love. 
She  was  kind,  not  masterful,  and 
possessed  a  strange  power  of  mak 
ing  him  uneasy  —  even  jealous. 
Peter  could  fight  for  a  bone.  But 
that  was  a  trivial  matter.  The  pre 
cious  thing  was  the  Master's  'af 
fection  —  not  to  be  divided.  His 
nearest  approach  to  intimacy  was 
the  Master's  knee.  The  woman 
had  his  arms.  A  vague  sense  of 
injustice  troubled  Peter's  serenity. 
His  objections  to  tramps  were  of 
a  different  order.  Life  after  all 
was  a  mystery,  the  woman  the 

CO 


PETER 

greatest  of  all.  Peter's  sense  of 
right  and  wrong  was  keen.  He  ac 
cepted  the  Master's  whip  without 
flinching.  He  knew  he  had  no 
business  to  flush  that  partridge. 
But  the  woman's  punishments 
were  unmerited,  besides  being 
ridiculous,  and  her  praise  unearned 
—  the  master's,  rare,  worthy  of 
a  God. 

But  of  Death,  the  greatest  mys 
tery  of  all,  Peter  knew  nothing. 

For  his  other  associates  Peter 
entertained  a  tolerant  contempt. 
What  the  woman  did  not  know 
he  knew  —  that  the  cat  was  a 
fawning  egoist,  selfish  to  the  core 
and  incapable  of  self-abnegation. 


PETER 

The  Master  was  not  so  easily  de 
ceived.  The  poultry  he  took  under 
his  protection,  as  every  fox  on  the 
hillside  was  aware.  Peter  loved 
authority,  but  used  it  tactfully, 
shutting  his  eyes  when  the  puppy, 
in  the  exuberance  of  youth,  raided 
the  hennery  and  ran  riot  among 
silly  folk  who  did  not  know  the 
difference  between  malice  and  fun. 
His  only  real  acquaintance  was  the 
Master's  horse.  Deep  down  in  his 
consciousness  as  the  spiritual  sign 
of  distinction  was  the  fact  that  he 
belonged  to  a  superior  race  —  the 
only  race  in  the  animal  kingdom 
which  preferred  the  society  of 
man  to  that  of  its  own  kind. 

C  8  1 


PETER 

Peter  opened  his  eyes. 

The  light  was  failing  fast.  All 
hope  of  the  comradeship  and  free 
dom  of  the  open  air  was  over.  He 
gave  a  long  sigh  and  closed  his 
eyes  again.  The  Master  had  for 
gotten.  The  enemy  of  all  joy 
was  still  on  the  knee.  A  fleeting 
memory  crossed  Peter's  brain,  of 
a  day  of  wrath,  when  he  had  scat 
tered  the  enemy  in  mouthfuls  over 
the  floor.  Jolly  days  those,  for  all 
the  whacks !  Now  were  the  sober 
years  of  discretion.  Not  for  him 
to  question  the  doings  of  a  God. 

He  knew  precisely  what  was 
about  to  happen.  Tom  and  Mary 
would  come  in  to  be  kissed  good- 


PETER 

night.  Next  they  would  roll  with 
him  on  the  rug  and  pull  his  ears. 
He  didn't  mind  that  overmuch. 
He  had  been  a  puppy  himself,  and 
love  was  love  in  all  its  forms. 
Then  the  woman  would  come. 

Peter  gave  a  low  growl. 

The  Master  looked  up.  "What's 
the  matter,  Peter  —  dreaming  ? " 

No,  Peter  was  not  dreaming. 
He  rose,  nosed  the  folio  from  the 
knee,  and  rested  his  head  in  its 
place — his  own  place.  The  Mas 
ter  laid  his  hand  on  the  head, 
smoothing  back  the  silky  ears. 
Peter's  eyes  were  mute,  as  human 
tongues  sometimes  are,  for  sheer 
happiness. 

C  1°  ] 


PETER 

Then  came  night,  exile,  when 
the  woman  had  her  way,  and  he 
went  on  guard. 

Peter  was  conscious  of  his  faults. 
They  had  been  pointed  out  to  him 
times  innumerable,  whereby  his 
virtues  had  become  a  second  na 
ture  of  which  he  was  not  conscious 
at  all.  The  Master  extolled  his  pa 
tience,  obedience,  politeness.  Peter 
would  have  laughed  in  his  sleeve, 
if  he  had  had  one.  Certain  things 
were  inexpedient  to  do. 

But  character,  unacquired  vir 
tues,  inherited  from  ancestral  expe 
rience  under  the  law  of  the  jungle, 
were  his.  He  was  proud,  without 
vanity.  He  lapped  the  water  from 

C  11  3 


PETER 

the  spring  without  seeing  the  re 
flection,  and  passed  the  woman's 
long  mirror  with  superb  indiffer 
ence.  He  was  thus  ignorant  of  the 
gray  hairs  gathering  about  his  eyes. 
Of  abstract  time  he  had  no  knowl 
edge.  Memory  and  anticipation 
were  his.  He  could  put  two  and 
two  together,  but  not  two  and  four. 
He  knew,  but  he  did  not  know 
that  he  knew.  That  something 
was  happening  he  was  painfully 
aware  —  something  sinister,  unac 
countable,  which  warned  him  that 
it  was  better  to  creep  under  the 
four  bars  he  used  to  take  with  one 
flashing  leap,  to  seek  the  flat  stone 
warmed  by  the  sun — something 


PETER 

intangible,  persistent,  which  nei 
ther  growl  of  protest  nor  curling 
lip  revealing  white  fang  intimi 
dated.  The  evidence  was  unmis 
takable.  Tom  and  Mary  were 
growing  rough,  the  woman  less 
hospitable,  and  his  friend  the  horse 
inconsiderate.  Time  was  when  he 
ran  two  miles  for  the  road's  one ! 
Every  leaf-strewn  lane,  every  sun- 
fleeted  valley  in  the  hills  Peter 
knew  by  heart  —  but  not  the  Val 
ley  of  Shadows.  At  its  gate  he  en 
tered,  uneasy,  but  fearless— com 
forted  and  secure  in  the  unfailing 
loving-kindness  of  his  God. 

There  came  an  evening  when 
Tom  and  Mary  passed  all  bounds. 


PETER 

Such  hugs  and  kisses  and  tears ! 
Peter  bore  this  uneven  distribution 
of  affection  with  his  customary 
patience,  shook  his  ruffled  gar 
ments  into  form,  turned  three 
times  deliberately  and  lay  down 
—  no  longer  in  his  once  favorite 
position,  hind  legs  outstretched, 
nose  between  paws.  That  had 
been  abandoned  long  ago  out  of 
respect  for  the  craven  enemy  that 
tormented  him.  Peter's  remedies 
against  hidden  foes  too  cowardly 
to  fight  in  the  open  were  few  — 
the  field  grass  and  sleep  —  always 
sleep.  Sleep  now  was  not  even 
forgetfulness.  Proud  as  ever,  the 
semi-conscious  whine  of  sleep  was 
C  14  3 


PETER 

his  only  capitulation  to  the  enemy. 
Flat  on  his  side,  he  heard  far  away 
the  murmur  of  conversation,  open 
ing  his  eyes  at  the  sound  of  his 
name  —  to  close  them  again.  They 
were  speaking  of  him,  not  to  him. 

Then,  suddenly,  the  Master 
rose  to  his  feet  with  decision,  put 
on  his  hat  and  coat,  and  called : 

"Come,  Peter!" 

Peter,  wincing,  bounded  to  his 
feet,  wide  awake  in  a  second.  His 
friend  the  horse  was  at  the  door. 
It  was  humiliating  to  be  lifted  to 
the  seat.  There  were  tears  in  the 
woman's  eyes,  which  usually  hap 
pened  when  the  Master  went  on 
a  journey.  Peter  curled  himself 

C  15  ] 


PETER 

up  on  the  seat.  If  the  Master  was 
going  on  a  journey,  he  was  going 
with  him. 

Peter  knew  every  road-turn 
ing  with  his  eyes  shut  —  but  not 
this  road,  nor  its  ending.  The  place 
and  its  tenant  were  strangers.  That 
the  Master  should  leave  him  with 
this  stranger  was  unprecedented. 
But  Peter  followed  obediently. 
Was  not  the  friend  of  the  Master 
his  also?  The  room  whose  door 
closed  upon  him  was  a  strange 
one,  carpeted  with  straw.  Where 
was  the  furniture?  The  sound  of 
departing  wheels  mystified  him. 
He  listened  as  they  died  away,  then 
barked  furiously.  Was  he  losing 

n  ^  3 


PETER 

his  nerve?  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  felt  utterly  lonely.  The 
silence  of  the  place  was  terrifying, 
and  its  odor  nauseating.  Peter  was 
a  judge  of  odors.  This  one,  at 
tached  to  no  personality,  was  dis 
quieting.  He  so  far  forgot  himself 
as  to  howl.  But  betrayal  never 
entered  his  mind.  He  took  three 
uncertain  steps,  with  wobbling 
traitor  legs,  steadied  himself  with 
an  effort,  tumbling  over  on  his 
side,  seeing  visions  —  visions  of 
wood  and  stream,  of  rug  and 
fireside — and  Master  —  and  gave 
a  long,  low  sigh. 

Going  on  his  last  journey  Peter 
took  his  God  with  him. 


CAMBRIDGE   .   MASSACHUSETTS 
U.S  .  A 


BOOK 


50e°  "o,  o 

lf  al-  not  ing 

ore 


YB  73891 


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